Sneak and Rescue

by Shirl Henke

  “Help hold him. We have to hydrate him,” Sam said, genuinely frightened now. She’d had enough paramedic training to know when someone was in trouble. Matt immobilized him while she tightened the restraints again. Then she forced his jaws open and held his nose closed. “Pour the water a little at a time. He’ll swallow.” Please, Farley. Please, God!

  At first the kid tried to resist but thirst won out and he drank a slow steady stream of water, until Sam knew he’d had enough for now. Matt fished out the pill bottle and looked at the script. “You have any idea what this stuff is?” he asked her.

  Sam read the label. “New psychotropic drugs come on the market fast as confetti tossed on New Year’s Eve. Never heard of it, and we can’t dare give it to him without knowing. Especially considering that Reicht prescribed it.”

  “What if he didn’t?” Matt asked.

  “You mean, Farley—or Elvis—pulled a ringer. Another drug in a legit script bottle.” She cursed and combed her fingers through her hair.

  “I’d suggest we head for the nearest town with a pharmacy and find out what this is.”

  “Just my thought,” she said, looking down at Farley, who lay with his eyes closed, mumbling incoherently. Thank heaven the shakes had stopped. His breathing was almost regular. She took his pulse and it was okay, too. He’d probably had a hysterical reaction to the kidnapping, not completely dissimilar to an asthmatic attack. Sam knew how dangerous that could be and again cursed the boy’s father and his doctor. Winchester had hired her knowing she was going to have to subdue the boy and place him in restraints to bring him back to Miami. So did Reese Reicht, M.D., Ph.D.

  “‘First do no harm,’ my dying ass,” she snarled.

  Chapter 12

  “It’s a variant on Clozaril,” Gene Warton said, explaining, “One possible symptom is recurrence of psychotic episodes, especially when the patient isn’t properly supervised. For example, if the patient consumes caffeine products, that will interfere with the medication. It could simulate withdrawal symptoms similar to those of a heroin addict.”

  “You mean like soft drinks?” Sam asked, remembering all the sweet and doubtless caffeinated junk Farley had consumed at the con.

  The elderly pharmacist nodded his shiny, bald head. They’d reached a small town just off the interstate and she’d caught him as he was locking up his shop for the evening, sweet talking him into checking our her “cousin’s” prescription.

  “This drug isn’t prescribed much anymore in such heavy dosages, especially outside of mental facilities. Too many contraindications.”

  “Such as dependency and acute physical withdrawal,” Sam said with a sigh.

  “I’d say you’d be wise to get your cousin to a doctor,” Warton advised. “In fact, I can recommend one right here in Ganntown, Dr.—”

  “Er, no thanks. We’re headed straight to Nashville. Our family has a psychiatrist there who’ll be able to help him,” Sam interjected before the helpful old man could reach for the phone and call in a local physician. “I just wanted to know what he’d been taking. When we started for home he had a bad reaction and kinda scared us, but his doctor in Nashville will know what to do,” she said. She’d told the pharmacist that Farley had run away to Florida and she’d been sent to fetch him.

  “I just don’t understand how a responsible psychiatrist would prescribe this kind of drug for outpatient use…even in Miami,” he added.

  “Well, that’s why we want to take Farley home,” Sam replied.

  “You don’t sound like you’re from Tennessee,” Warton said, his watery blue eyes becoming suspicious.

  “Oh, I’m from New York—upstate New York,” Sam hurriedly added. No sense making the guy even more likely to call the cops on her. “I’d better get Cousin Farley home. Thanks again for your help.”

  She went toward the door, smiling all the while and grateful she’d parked the van on the next block where Warton couldn’t see it. As soon as she hit the all-American main street and turned the corner, she yanked open the van door and said to Matt, “I think it’s time we did the burn patient routine, just in case we’re stopped. With me in a nurse’s uniform and a medical facility logo on the sides of the Econoline, I’ll be less likely to raise any flags.”

  “What happened?” Matt asked. He knew it was risky but they’d had to find out what the kid was on. “Have any scrubs that’ll fit me?”

  “Nope, only pj’s and house slippers,” she replied, with a smile.

  “In your dreams. You’re never getting me into another straitjacket, Sammie.”

  “I might just make you eat those words…when we have time,” she said. “How’s our patient?”

  “Farley’s still peacefully sleeping, thanks to your special knockout nasal spray,” he replied. “Potent stuff.” How well he remembered.

  “At least I had the med vetted by a reliable doctor in Miami before I used it on anyone. I hate to admit it, but I think I blew it with that old fart of a pharmacist. He probably dialed the local cops or the Illinois Highway Patrol the minute I walked out of the joint.” She muttered an oath.

  “What made him suspicious of you?”

  “Oh, I dunno…maybe bringing in a script from a Miami shrink and asking what such a potent narcotic’s side effects would be on my poor ‘Cousin Farley’—and not having a Southern accent. I’m probably lucky if he doesn’t call the DEA, too.”

  “I’ll drive and you hide with the kid,” he said.

  Sam cursed again, then sighed. “I hate it when you’re right. Just don’t strip the gears on my baby.”

  “Yes, Ms. Andretti,” he said.

  As they drove through western Kentucky, Sam explained about the dangerous narcotic Farley was taking. “So, Scruggs didn’t put a ringer in the pill bottle then,” Matt said.

  “No, but Reicht did prescribe a med that should never be used unless the patient is under 24-7 care. The soft drinks at the con made his condition worse.”

  “Keeping the kid doped and locked up is exactly what he intended to do when he got the kid to that Homeside joint,” Matt said.

  She nodded. “But he started Farley onto the junk weeks ago.”

  “To make him—pardon the bad pun—spacie?” Matt asked.

  “Yeah, I bet so. And, I wonder if he might not have been behind the kid acting psychotic for some time. Maybe ever since he started treating him? The more Farley hallucinates and acts weird, the easier it is to get him committed…and to make people doubt anything he might say.”

  “Like what? And why? Remember, Reicht had excellent credentials until the IRS came on the scene.”

  Sam shrugged. “I don’t know. But somebody’s going to a hell of a lot of trouble to shut the kid up permanently.”

  “Scruggs?” he suggested.

  She looked dubious. “He’s had plenty of chances to off the boy. I think he just wants his meal ticket punched—and speaking of punches, you should’ve seen the lump on his head when those goons tried to snatch Farley. No, someone else is after the kid.”

  “I still don’t trust Elvis Scruggs,” Matt said doggedly.

  She bussed him on his cheek. “You’re sweet when you’re protective—a royal pain, but a sweet one.”

  They got as far as Tennessee when someone driving a tan Mustang passed them going fast enough for liftoff from the highway asphalt. “Crazy kids,” Matt muttered to himself.

  From the backseat where she’d been keeping an eye on Farley, Sam said, “I don’t think so. Slow down and pull over—quick!”

  “What the hell—” He didn’t have a chance to say more before the muscle car cut directly in front of them and a MP5 submachine gun materialized from the passenger window. Matt swerved to the wide berm and hit the brakes at the same time. He could hear Sam climbing over the seat to reach the glove compartment where her .38 snub nose was concealed. “Stay down, dammit!” he yelled, not taking his eyes off the road as the first burst of fire whistled past the driver’s window. The Mustang fishtailed as
the driver put on the brakes.

  If Matt hadn’t slowed and pulled over, the automatic weapon fire could’ve taken him out and crashed the van, killing all three of them. Sam had the glove compartment open, crouched down as she rooted for her gun.

  She lowered her window and hissed at him, “Now you get down. You’re a much bigger target. Just be ready to get us out of here when I say the word.”

  “I don’t like this, Sam.”

  “What? You think I do?” she replied, glaring at him until he complied. The attack vehicle started to back up. She knew he wanted to do something to protect her, but she was a better shot. And she needed a driver if they were going to have any hope of escaping this alive. She waited until the Mustang was only about twenty yards in front of them. The driver did just what she hoped he’d do. The MP5 poked out of the passenger window again.

  “I need a distraction,” she said to Matt. “Open your door but don’t raise your head above the dash and for crying out loud, don’t stick your foot on the ground and get it shot off.”

  “Think of all the dough we could save if I bought shoes one at a time, you tightwad,” he muttered, doing as she said. The minute he shoved the door open, the shooter blasted away, but to do it, the gunman had to lean partially out of the car.

  Sam took careful aim, using the van’s large side-view mirror as cover for her hand. She fired and the automatic flew from the attacker’s hands. It landed on the ground a few feet away. She could hear his curses and grinned grimly. “Bet that hurt like a bitch,” she said, hoping she’d hit his fingers as well as the weapon. She fired again, this time at the car’s right rear tire. When it went down with a soft whump, she turned to Matt. “Now, peel out before he recovers that cannon.”

  Matt gunned the powerful engine and took off, spraying gravel and dirt behind them. He swerved the van into the passing lane and sped by the disabled Mustang. Another single shot fired by the driver hit the side of the van but did far less damage than the automatic had done to his door, which looked kind of like a chunk of metallic Swiss cheese. At least the lock held as they sped away. A short burst of automatic fire echoed after them, but by the time the shooter had recovered his weapon from the ground, they were out of range.

  “Who the hell are these guys?” he asked.

  “Don’t know but I got the plates this time,” she replied, rooting for a scrap of paper and a pen. “Not local talent. Florida plates.”

  “You think they followed us all the way from St. Louis?”

  “No way could they know what route we’d take,” she said, shaking her head. “And after all this time, I’d have spotted a tail…unless…”

  “You thinking what I’m thinking?” he asked.

  “Let’s put some distance between us and those charming fellows, then check the van for tracers.”

  They drove for another half hour at speeds Spacefleet would have envied. By the time they pulled into a large truck plaza and hid the van behind a cluster of Dumpsters in the back, it was dusk. Matt kept a lookout for their pals in the Mustang while Sam searched her Econoline.

  “Bingo.” She held up the small honing device. “Pretty high-tech,” she said, looking around the plaza’s parking lot. “Give me a minute.”

  Matt watched her sprint across to where a truck was starting to pull out of its space, gears grinding industriously. She pushed the magnetic device onto the rear door and stepped back, being careful to keep the driver from seeing her in his side view mirror. Damn, the woman was a wonder. He’d been hearing stories about her driving one of those behemoths cross-country from her uncle ever since they met at the wedding in Boston. At first he’d found it hard to credit. How could a small woman do it? He grinned idiotically.

  Sam could. Of course.

  She rejoined him, watching the direction the truck was heading. “Southbound on I-24,” she said with a thumbs-up. “Perfect.”

  “But that’s the way we were going,” Matt said. “Don’t tell me. We’re taking the scenic route again.” It wasn’t a question.

  She ignored him. “Think it might be better if I drove for a while. Although,” she added, giving him a quick kiss, “you did really well during the getaway. For an amateur.”

  “Amateur! I’ve seen The French Connection twelve times,” he groused, watching her open the rear doors of the van.

  “How’re you doing, Farley?” she asked the boy, whose eyelids were fluttering. He looked pale but his breathing was steady. She perched on the edge of the floor and took his pulse. Some irregularity, but not bad. “No use playing possum. I know you’re awake. I didn’t give you much and we’ve just had quite an adventure. Too bad you missed this one.” Actually she was very glad he’d been unconscious during the shoot-out. She didn’t need him going into another attack while they were in the wilds of the Smoky Mountains.

  “El will come after you. You’re not Starfleet,” he said in a hoarse voice.

  “I doubt he’ll be able to find us. Look, Farley, I’m gonna explain this to you again. Somehow I don’t think you quite caught it all the first time.” As she spoke, Sam loosened the restraints and helped him into a sitting position. “You were right about me not being Spacefleet.” She could see Matt ready to interrupt but she waved him off. “Commander Granger is, but I’m really a P.I.”

  “A private investigator?” he echoed, shaking his head as if trying to recall something she’d said before.

  “Your father hired me to bring you back to Miami—”

  “I don’t want to go back to him,” he said sullenly, his body stiffening with anger—or was it fear? “All he’ll do is turn me over to that doctor and then I’ll get sick again…”

  “Right,” Matt interjected. “We don’t intend to take you back to either one of them, do we, Sam?”

  She shook her head. “Someone’s trying to kill you and until we figure out who it is, we’ll keep you under wraps where they can’t find you, but to get to the bottom of this we have to go back to Miami,” she said in her best patient-medical professional tone of voice. Sometimes it worked.

  This time it didn’t. “No! I never want to go back there again! I want El. He’s the only one who believes me. He knows about the conspiracy…the Pandorians…” His voice faded away. “I-I think I n-need my p-pills.”

  “Those pills Dr. Reicht prescribed for you? Why would you trust him? The stuff’s bad news, Farley,” she said.

  “I g-gotta have ’em, p-please,” he begged.

  She exchanged a glance with Matt, who shrugged and said, “If what that pharmacist told you was right, he can’t just quit cold turkey.”

  “How long since he took the last one?” she muttered to herself, checking her watch. She’d seen him pop one as they reached the Jag in the parking lot, around three. It was nearly eight-thirty now and they’d confiscated the junk the minute they had gotten him away from Scruggs. “I guess a half of one wouldn’t hurt.” She removed the cap from the bottle and snapped one of the tablets in half, offering it to Farley with more water.

  He swallowed it and drank greedily, then looked up at her, then Matt. “Are you really Spacefleet?”

  “Word of honor,” Matt said, raising his hand. The poor kid had to have some familiar talisman to keep him calm until they could figure this out.

  Farley seemed to weigh that, then nodded. “Okay, I guess if you vouch for her,” he said, looking suspiciously at Sam, “then I’ll trust you.”

  Matt gave Sam a wink and whispered softly as the boy tipped his head back and drank again from the water bottle, “Sometimes my way’s better.”

  She mouthed a faintly obscene expression at him with a forced smile.

  “But we gotta find Leila,” Farley said, wiping his hand over the back of his mouth.

  “We will, son. That’s why Command sent me here. We’ll stop whoever wants to hurt you, too,” Matt reassured him.

  Against Sam’s best judgment, she let the two guys talk her into allowing Farley to sit in the backseat while she drove. Ma
tt kept a close eye on him and he behaved for the next several hours, dozing off to sleep by the time they reached central Kentucky via back roads that Sam navigated in the dark with more verve than her husband would have preferred.

  “I think we should stop for the night. We all need some rest, especially you after all this driving,” he argued.

  “Quit worrying. I’m used to long hauls and the sooner we get home, the sooner we get to the bottom of this whole mess,” she said, stifling a yawn.

  “That cuts it,” he said. “You’re not going to drive us off the edge of a cliff because you have to be the baddest trucker on the road. Pull over there.” He pointed to a flashing neon sign ahead at the approaching exit.

  “Ah, the Bates Motel. Good thinking, Normie. What a creepy-looking joint,” she said, but she did as he demanded, too tired to argue.

  “Considering the kind of places you locked me up in, this is the Ritz,” he replied as the van eased up to the Lazy Boy Motel’s registration door. “Hold the fort while I get us a room.”

  “We gotta have at least two beds,” she called after him.

  He stopped and looked over his shoulder. “You wanna cuddle with Farley watching?”

  “No show-and-tell, Commander. Just a reminder that we have to secure the kid. Best thing would be to get two rooms. I’ll stay in one with him and you take the other. That way we’ll both get a good night’s sleep.”

  He could see the smug look on her face. “I think Farley and I’ll bunk together. That’ll spare your modesty since you like to sleep mother naked.”

  She snorted. “Only because this sex fiend I know keeps ripping my clothes off every time we get near a bed.”

  “But not tonight. We’re professionals, remember? You’ll just have to restrain your baser urges, Sammie.” He waggled his eyebrows and walked inside to register.

  The room they chose for him and Farley was typical cheap motel with a rustic touch. The generously stained orange shag carpet and striped avocado drapes were yellowed with old cigarette smoke, but a deer head with a twelve-point rack welcomed them with liquid brown eyes from its mount on one phony wood-paneled wall. A thick layer of dust covered the television screen.